


Soft Rains Will Come

by enoughiamagod



Series: Bond Air is Go [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Asexual!Sherlock, Bond is falling, Bondlock, Crossover, Gen, John and Sherlock have a moment, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poor Q, Straight!John, uh-oh angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:04:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughiamagod/pseuds/enoughiamagod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John share a moment of worry for Q. Q falls more for his agent, and could his agent possibly be falling back? And then tragedy strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here, in Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> don't own. feel free to comment/edit/draw pictures/translate.  
> Also this is going to have chapters, unlike previous works in this collection. It started out as a one shot though, so that's why it kind of has a weird feeling to me.

John Watson sometimes thinks, in the dawn on the rare occasions he wakes before Sherlock, that the army was easy compared to Sherlock Holmes. There, at least, you knew who was shooting at you, and who you were shooting. With Sherlock Holmes, you never knew anything more than the fact that your best friend was trying to get you killed on a regular basis. But John supposed that was life, and if his was slightly more dangerous than the average middle-age man’s, then so be it.  
He likes those dawns, the ones like today, where Sherlock is still sleeping and he can watch his pale form gently rising and falling. Sherlock, when he is awake, is all motion and angles, but in sleep, he’s gentle and almost adorable, a pile of skin and bones and sleepy warmth and John smiles to think that Sherlock can even come close to adorable. It’s nice, too, to watch Sherlock as he is now, stretching awake as he must when John is still asleep. He looks at John, and John waits, because it is here, in the mornings before the day sharpens Sherlock and turns him prickly, that they talk about the serious things.  
“Do you think Quintin will be alright?” John is silent for a moment. If this were one of his women (oh, yes, John keeps women, has women, ones that Sherlock picked, of course. Everything is Sherlock approved in John's life.) he’d reach out and smooth the dark hair, but this is Sherlock, and no one, not even John, can do that, so he doesn’t.  
“Well, I’m alright, aren’t I?” Sherlock considers this. John is steadfast. Time may change, but John does not. He is addictive in his all-rightness.  
“You have never indicated otherwise.”  
He does not say _but John you are strong and steadfast and brave, so brave, and Q is like me, a Holmes, and we are not known for our bravery. We are known for many things but being okay is not one of them_ but he does not. He merely burrows deeper in the the blankets, feeling the warmth of John through the sheets. It even smells like him, smells safe and like love, and right now Sherlock wants John to ask "Can I touch you," and hold his hand but John won't and Sherlock doesn't know how to ask for it, so he pulls his lips into a smile for John, and is rewarded with a smile back. “Then your brother will be. He is your brother, after all, and when have you never gotten what you wanted?”  
“I always get what I want, John.”  
“Exactly.”

John chuckles, and Sherlock's heart quakes in what it has newly discovered and will never release.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft, for his part, bugs James’ apartment. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Quintin has gone to even greater lengths for his agent. Q creates a wristwatch for James, a beautiful, delicately crafted piece that not only tells time, but can shoot a laser, cut glass, and pick locks, all on a lovely leather band. The cufflinks Q creates can be stabbed into a person, and will inject a poison that will immobilize within three minutes. Q is particularly proud of these, because not only did he design the poison, but he also managed to secretly shape them in the form of a Q. Sentiment, he knows, but somehow it feels right that James should bear his initial (like a token of a lady to her knight, Q thinks, then immediately erases the thought) like this. Secretly. 

What Q maybe doesn’t notice, or refuses to read anything into, is the care James takes with these items. The watch is barely scratched, and he’s managed to keep both cufflinks, though minus the poison in one, and Q, upon its return, shudders at the sight of red inside the crystal, blood drawn in by force. Even his agent’s body is slightly less broken and bruised when he returns, and if he likes to sit in Q’s office and watch him work, then why not? It is quiet, and peaceful, and there is coffee and muffins and Q with his glasses and too-bright eyes and ribs and the voice that keeps James safe.

And so life carries on in 221B, and in the Holmes manor, and in the Quartermaster’s labs, and if John and Sherlock are concerned about Q, they keep it confined to the early morning. That is, until Mycroft shows up on their door, a few weeks before Christmas.

John welcomes him in, because “family is family”, and though he may not like Mycroft much, or trust him past arm’s length, he is Sherlock’s brother. So in he comes, and he’s got a worried expression that disarms John in a way that rarely anything does. Sherlock’s out, and John’s sure Mycroft knows, and this, too, worries John, because Mycroft only refuses to tell Sherlock the very important things, the things he should tell but doesn’t because he is trying, in his own way, to protect his baby brothers. But he tells John, anyway, because John knows how to tell Sherlock without breaking him, and knows how to pull Sherlock past the darkness.  
“John, you haven’t seen Quintin around, have you?”  
“We haven’t seen him since he came for dinner last week. He said he was busy on Monday, so we didn’t bother calling. Why?” Mycroft’s face tighens, and John would say blame but Mycroft never feels guilty about anything, so what can this be?  
“He’s gone missing.”  
 _Oh._


	2. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft feels guilty. John handles bad situations well. Sherlock wants to help find Q, but Mycroft can't risk another brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own. If you like this, check out the rest of the series. (shameless self-promoting)

The way John deals with fear and uncertainty is remarkable. He looks it in the face, then calmly continues about his business, whatever that may be. He calls Sherlock, tells him to come home as soon as he can, something’s come up and it’s big, and he calls Susan to say he’ll need time off at the surgery. He cancels his appointments with his women amid a flurry of apologies, saying only _family needs me_ and hanging up. Mycroft sits on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea, watching John. John doubts Mycroft has ever lost Quintin before, and John suspects it is related to Mycroft and Q’s line of work. He pities Mycroft at that moment, but John carries on. He knows Mycroft has already put his men on the job, and he knows that as soon as anything is found, the mask will slip back on, and the ice-man would return. But not now, now it’s living, breathing Mycroft, who needs to talk and John sees no harm in letting him, so when Mycroft opens his mouth, John gets his own cup of tea, and sits in Sherlock’s chair (all angles, much like the man), facing him.   
“When they were younger, it was always my job to take care of them,” he starts, and though John’s heard stories from Sherlock, he supposes Mycroft sees things differently. “Mother and Father were too busy doing whatever it was they did, and then we were sent to boarding school. The summers we went home, I had to watch them and make sure they didn’t get hurt and that they were clean for dinner. Once I was ten, and Sherlock and Quintin were being difficult, and I couldn’t get them ready in time...” Here he pauses, and rolls his cup in his hand. “Then Father died, and Mother remarried and was too busy for us. I was in university then, and they were still children, but I knew I had to take care of them then. I tried my best, but still Sherlock found drugs, and Q broke into places and eventually I ended up here and I thought ‘good, okay, I can keep them safe here.’ but I can’t.” John simply looks at Mycroft. What is there to say, besides cheap words of comfort?   
“You’ve done fine by us, Mycroft,” comes a low voice from behind John. Mycroft looks up. “You always have, and though your meddling is annoying, it is on occasion, useful.” Sherlock walks into the room, and takes John’s chair. (He’ll categorize the meaning of this later, because with John everything and nothing is deliberate and Sherlock wants to miss nothing but now John has the worried look that means he’ll ask to hold Sherlock’s hand or maybe a hug and this pleases Sherlock, that John takes comfort in him, but _pleased is not good_ right now so Sherlock squashes it down.) “Now either say what you want or get out. John has something to tell me, and by the looks of it, he’s worried, so I’d appreciate-”  
“Sherlock.”  
“-you leaving. Yes, John?”  
“Mycroft stays.”  
“Why? He’s not involved in our business.”  
“Sherlock, please.”  
“I don’t see why-” Sherlock begins to protest, but John’s voice gets the edge that means _Bad Sherlock_ so he stops.  
“Your brother’s gone missing.”  
 _Oh._

Sherlock seems to sag in his chair.  
“You’re sure.” Statement.  
“Yes.”  
“I’ll need everything you know.”  
“You’re assuming I’ll let you help find him.”  
“Of course you will. He’s my brother too.”  
“It’s dangerous, Sherlock. I don’t even know who took him, though I have an idea.”  
“I can find him.”  
“No.”  
“Mycroft.”  
“I said no, Sherlock.”  
“Mycroft!”   
“I am not risking both my brothers.”  
“I won’t go after them alone.”  
“You’ve promised that before.” John, knowing that eventually Mycroft will allow Sherlock to help, wanders to the kitchen. He calls Mycroft’s wife, and invites her over for dinner, since Sherlock and Mycroft will go back and forth for at least another hour. She accepts, and John sets to work cooking. He likes cooking, the rhythm and the smells, and he lets his mind wander to his flatmate, and how he had been planning to propose marriage on Christmas. Sherlock hates ceremony, would kill John if he made it seem carefully planned, yet would be secretly hurt if it wasn’t, and John had almost figured out how he was going to ask, but now he would have to wait. That was fine. They had all the time in the world. Finding Q was much more important.  
The voices die down from the living room, but John leaves them be. Family needs time, and as much a part of the brothers’ lives he may be, he is not family yet. Worry prickles him, too, for Q, a boy he’s grown fond of, much like an uncle towards a nephew. Quintin is smart and funny, and hopelessly in love with that Bond man, who kissed him (oh, yes, John saw, but he knew how to keep secrets better than Mycroft) at the party, and now Q was missing and John hopes against what he fears most. He hopes for Q to be alive, and well, and to come home, because to John, there is always hope.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
James Bond, upon learning that his quartermaster is missing, is a strange and different man. He breaks things. He spends days at the range, shooting at targets that don’t shoot back, and he refuses missions. He requests an audience with M, who happens to call in Mycroft, and demands to be allowed to go on the retrieval mission for Q, whenever that may be. He is, of course, permitted, because he is their best agent, and Q is his quartermaster, and every agent is obligated (Is all James is feeling obligation? He does not know.) to their quartmaster, and the watch band, perfectly smooth leather, reminds him of this (and when he discovered that his cufflinks were in the shape of a Q. Now that was interesting, and confusing, but James kept them anyway, safe and sound, and if that was more than obligation, then so be it) and he touches it, gently.  
“Why, Bond,” Mycroft drawls, knowing how to hide who and what he is ( _worried brother, guilty brother, bad brother_ ), “is this sentiment?”  
James Bond, who prides himself on a quick turn of phrase and sharp wit, surprises even himself with the honesty of his answer.  
“Yes, sir. It is.”


	3. Hallucinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is missing. John and Mycroft and Sherlock are looking for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggery stuff here. If blood or pain is not okay, skip this chapter. Sorry, darlings.  
> (torture)  
> I almost couldn't write this. 
> 
> Don't own.

It is dark, and Quintin is afraid.

His hands are bound above him, and though he’s slumped seated against a wall, the position still stretches and strains him. The cloth over his eyes, he guesses, is the same that’s been shoved into his mouth, a foul, filthy rag that tastes slightly of oil and has the texture of an old tee-shirt. It probably is an old tee-shirt, Q thinks in despair. I’m going to die with an old rag of a shirt in my mouth. Hysterics.

 _Bad. Focus, Quintin. Sherlock and Mycroft are probably looking for you right now_.

But he didn’t tell anyone where he was going, so how would they know?

 _Mycroft has cameras everywhere_ , a voice that sounds remarkably like Sherlock answers.

But would Mycroft find him in time?

The Sherlock-voice has no answer, just as Q expects.

_That’s what I thought._

Q breathes in through his nose, trying to gather his thoughts. The wall behind him is stony and rough and cool, and Q leans his head back against it, trying not to cry. He’s scared and hurt and tired and he doesn’t know how he got here, or if he’ll ever get out and it’s all a bit overwhelming for him and his eyes start to water but he closes them more firmly against the cloth and thinks about James and his blue eyes and steady head. His James, who has been in this situation a thousand times, James who would know what to do, who would focus on making a plan rather than being a silly weeping sack, and Q screws his courage to the sticking place and knows if he wants to survive he must be James in this moment, must possess the sure calmness and boldness of his agent, and so he swallows down his tears and his fear and _thinks_. Judging by the feeling of his bladder(still fairly empty) and the moistness of his mouth he hasn’t been unconscious long, only enough to be dragged here and restrained. He’s still in fairly good shape, too, so either the men who grabbed him (from behind, his head aches dreadfully and he suspects he’s bled a bit) are under orders to not hurt him, or, Q shivers as this thought runs through his head, they’re saving it for later.He hastily shoves that idea away. Footsteps, faint but approaching, perk his interest and as Q sits in the dark, bound, terrified beyond belief, he does something that he hasn’t since he was a tiny child and his nanny put him to bed every night. Quintin begins to pray.

* * *

 

“Well, Mycroft, do you have any idea who took him?”

“We have reason to believe it’s the work of a drug gang that his agent had broken into a few weeks before. We had Quintin hack in. We didn’t think they posed any threat but-” “You miscalculated.”

“It was a mistake, Sherlock.”

“You seem to have a habit of playing with your brothers’ lives, Mycroft,” John interrupts. “And they’re not toys.”

 

“Dr. Watson, I hardly see what your concern is, since I happen to have quite a bit more information on the situation.” “Obviously not enough, because Q’s been taken by some crazed criminals.” John is angry. He is bristling in anger, and Sherlock thinks _John is strong and brave and righteously angry and I would very much not like to lose him_ and his heart tightens, momentarily, with fear. Sherlock is rarely afraid, and now, he asks himself, am I afraid they will take John? Yes. Am I afraid they will try to take me, and leave John alone, worried and scared and pretending he will be all right? Yes.

“That will be all, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s vice tightens and John takes a step back and breathes. His fists are clenched and he relaxes them, deliberately. He is worried and scared but blame will not help get to Q, and so he turns and sits, deliberately, in his own chair, and crosses his arms. “My men are will find him soon, and we will get him out. I can assure you of that.” The men glare at each other, but it is less hostile than before. Sherlock, sensing John could use a touch, gently steps behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder. He’s not fond of touching, really, but this is John, and all right, because John needs him, needs this, and Sherlock can do that. John relaxes slightly under his hand, and gently reaches up and covers it with his own.  _It's all right,_ Sherlock's hand tells John.  _Mycroft will find him, and bring back Q, and it will be all right._

* * *

 

They have beaten Q. Beaten him until he cried, and then until the skin on his back broke from the whip and the blood trickled down his legs, but they stop right before Q reaches the glorious black unconsciousness beckoning him. They stop and wait, until he recovers, until the pain comes back in full force, and then they begin again, on different parts, until Q knows he is only ribbons attached to a head. They’ve left his head alone, unmarred, so that his corpse can be identified, he assumes, when he has bursts of clarity amid the haze of pain. Those come rarely though.

What comes more often are the hallucinations. There’s a teenaged Mycroft, frowning at him like the time he ripped his pants playing outside with Sherlock, saying “Quintin, this will not do,” and a toddler Sherlock, dragged from one of Q’s first memories, saying “Let’s play, Q,” and John Watson, whispering “There is always hope,” and he hates that hallucination the most, because there is no hope. Not here, in the darkness, where his eyes are blinded and his hands are tied and his body torn to shreds. And always, there is James. James’ voice and eyes and hands, the crooked smile he gave when he came back from the dead, his lips pressing against Q’s, the little jokes they had when he was on mission, the feel of his suit under Q’s palms, all these are with Q, and this is what grounds him, strange as that may seem. As long as he can remember James, he tells himself, he can do anything. The men holding him bark questions, but Q, feeling James’ mouth on him and smelling gunpowder and expensive cologne, runs towards the blackness reaching for him, and jumps in. His body slumps and goes slack, and the men beating him give him a few quick kicks, then walk away. He’s passed out, for now, but he’ll come around, and they’ll be ready with new tortures when he is.

_James is standing in the doorway to Q’s office, smiling. He’s dressed in a rumpled sweater and jeans, casual off-duty clothes that remind Q suspiciously of his own wardrobe. “Well, come in,” Q says, not looking. He knows who it is, from the feeling of the eyes alone. “I can’t have you standing there, distracting me. This is a very delicate procedure, and, oh-” he breaks off suddenly as a pair of hands settle on his hips, and suddenly a voice is whispering in his ear of unspeakable things and Q is blushing and trying to concentrate, but he gives up and arches back against the man behind him. James spins him around, and Q is backed up against his desk, and James is still smiling that little half-smile that says he knows Q, wants to have Q inside-out and babbling mindlessly and Q thinks that he’s never seen such a beautiful sight in his life. He lifts his hands off Q’s hips and they’ve covered in blood, and Q screams, again and again._

He will continue to scream until he wakes up, and when he does, his throat will be raw and bloody and maybe Q will make it back into unconsciousness, into pleasanter dreams, or maybe not.


	4. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond is perhaps more attached than he thought he would be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is incomplete. I lost about half of it earlier today, but I will try to finish and get the rest of it back up.

  **B** **efore the kidnapping**

Bond knew he would be assigned a new Quartermaster. He’d gone through three in the last few months, each angrier and angrier about his use of equipment. He’d spoiled their best watches, torn their tiny wired devices, exploded their favorite guns, and eventually they’d refused to work with him.

M had told him _stop antagonizing them, Bond_ and _for God’s sake man, can’t you return something in one piece_ but Bond laughed and answered that he had come back in one piece and shouldn’t that be all right?

Oh, sure, he slept with some of his Quartermasters as well, the needy ones, mostly women with kind hearts (although he didn’t mind the male ones, with their need to be consumed) because it was easy and comfortable with them, and they never turned him away from their bed. He never let it get messy, get past anything but hot mouths and aching bodies because he was James Bond and he knew what that meant. James Bond meant dying alone, meant sleeping with people you didn’t love, eating meals that were badly cooked, waking up screaming but there was no gentle touch to soothe and guide back to sleep, a cold bed and a single tumbler of whiskey (emptied) waiting to be washed.

 

When he had been assigned to the young man sitting next to him, he’d insulted him, blindly, bored of the games and hoping this one would be interesting, and he was not disappointed. The witty reply made James smirk, and he knew this Quartermaster (Q, Quintin,) could handle him just fine.

 

James sees the symphony Q builds for him, if he doesn’t say anything it means merely that he doesn’t love his Quartermaster. He is James Bond, after all, and this means that he is immune to love, hardened like granite. He feels in his ear the sharpness of Q’s tongue as he guides him, and the relief that washes over Q when he saunters in, bloody and broken, and he knows, as the wolf does, that the prey is ready and willing to be caught. But he does not move in, and this is what surprises James. He does not, one night, stay late and sneak up behind Q, and cup the Quartermaster’s sharp hips in his blunt hands, does not whisper naughty things in his ear, does not taste the hollow behind his ear or the curve of his neck or catch the scent of his hair. Instead he drinks more and broods and whispers completely harmless as he imagines black hair and glasses smiling about a love-swollen mouth and more bare skin below and his throat catches and he forcibly shoves the image away because James Bond does not make love, does not think love, does not love. James Bond takes and breaks and destroys things, he fucks them, he intentionally returns from missions half blown up because he finds meaning in the simpleness of a fist against a face or a knife between ribs- not in kisses stolen in the morning or waking up to another body huddled against his. There is beauty in breaking things that can be fixed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Hidden Symphonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't own.

There is no beauty in this, in the body James cradles in his arms, chest barely fluttering, blood and wounds more frequent than skin. He looks on the face of his Quartermaster, his black hair limp and unkempt, his face scruffy. It had only been two weeks but Q had aged decades in that time. James runs his hand gently down his agent’s face. “Q,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.” Q stirs slightly and James steadies him with his hand as the paramedics rush in, put him on a gurney and take him away, into the waiting ambulance and to the hospitial where they will say _lucky to be alive_ and _six broken ribs, a broken collarbone_ , and more.

James visits Q in the hospital, holds his hand while he is sleeping, lifts water to his mouth and smooths his covers. This is fondness, this is love, this unsure gentleness, and it marvels the nurses who catch glimpses of it. John and Sherlock visit as well, bringing flowers and guests and food for James, though they say nothing. There is nothing to be said. He loves Q, and they see that more clearly than James himself.

Occasionally John will lay a gentle hand on James’ shoulder, as if to say _there is always hope_ , and this is the beauty of John Watson, his gentle healing hands and his silent understanding and when Sherlock, terrified, reaches for his hand in the night, John is there, steady, warm, unmoving.

Sherlock finds himself reaching for John's hand more and more, for reasons he himself is unsure of, because he's never been good at this, at  _people_ and  _touching_ and though it scares him, it is right.

 

Mycroft visits, too, alone, and even James leaves the room. He stares at his little brother’s broken body, fragile and dark against the clean sheets and he sorrows at the sight. The beeping from the machines is steady, gentle, and the hum and whir that sustain his brother sit inside him like a stone. Mycroft Holmes wears his darkest suits, does not eat, and broods in silent places, trying hard not to torture himself for his latest mistake. He is not successful, but then again, he never is.

He tells no one about the nightmares.

The day Quinten goes home, he does so on the arm of his agent. No one says anything as the two leave, but later John will remark about the cufflinks Bond wore, the curious Q ones, and Sherlock will laugh but hide the sheet music he is working on, a violin solo for John. Some things cannot be shown until the proper time, for if revealed too early they lose the greatness that comes with the secret labors of love.


	6. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calmness. Will be expanded and continued at a later time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own anything.

When Q goes back to work, James takes a break. He turns in his gun and sits quietly in Q’s chair, watching the hands of his quartermaster gently solder a wire or dance over a keyboard. He brings tea and muffins and drags Q away when it’s time to sleep. It’s two months before Q kicks him out, tells him he’s needed in the field, tells him he’ll be with him every step of the way.   
The first mission is exhilarating, pure violence, a simple in-and-out that takes him only a week. When he returns, it is to a bed and hungry kisses and hands and a body that seems like it will break. 

James is not used to holding fragile things, but he thinks he could be, in time.


	7. Soft Rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't own
> 
> more shameless promoting - check out the rest of the series Bond Air is Go :)

When Q awakes in his own bed, everything hurts, but he feels clean and calm, and someone is there, next to him but not next to him, and his eyes strain and strain but without his glasses, it’s all a blur. He hears laughter, laughter that he recognizes from a mask and blue eyes and a suit under his hands, and he turns towards it. A hand moves towards his face, gently placing glasses there, and the face of his James swims into view.

“Hello,” James says with a smile. “Been missing you.”

It is all Q can do to smile, but he does. James looks at him, steadily and softly, eyes tracing Q’s face and shoulders, and Q will go to his grave carrying the feeling of the gaze, and the blush that rose on James’ cheeks when he saw Q’s exposed chest. Q will go to his grave remembering that.

Q opens his mouth to speak, but he is stopped by James, who has gently laid a finger on his lips.

“No talking,” he says, and smiles, and oh, Q remembers the first time he heard those words, and he falls silent, and James must have released more drugs into his IV because he’s so sleepy and his eyes close slowly but even then there is still James.

* * *

 

The next time he awakens, he’s able to move around, and he does.

It’s slow work, healing, but with James by his side, Q does well. His body knits together, and though he’ll always have aches and pains he’s whole again. He sees his brothers often, and John Watson too, John who has plans to marry Sherlock, and he helps John plan that and he rejoices in the life that surrounds him.

At night, he can’t sleep unless James is there, whispering to him, touching him, and even then he has nightmares and thrashes and screams. His psychologist says this will go away, and Q believes him, but it will take time, and if that means Q falls asleep in James’s arms most nights, then so be it.

It is a night, almost three months after he’s been declared fully healed, that James comes into his bed, and kisses his forehead.

There it is, there’s the love that has been unspoken for so long, and the soft rains fall outside and hit the window and Q does not have nightmares for the first time, and James does not leave the bed, just holds him and listens to the rain.

* * *

 

They have a lot to figure out, but this, this is a start.


End file.
